


Finding Home

by HigherMagic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 10:57:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5925958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After almost killing himself trying to help Castiel escape Metatron's prison, Gadreel is still trying to make amends for all of the things he's done – especially to Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finding Home

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the spn_reversebang challenge. Thank you to sastmk for the wonderful art and prompt. I love a good fluffy wing hug fic!

**Art link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/5777725.**

 

One day, Sam woke up to find a book outside his door. It was an older-looking, leather-bound journal, and reminded Sam of the kind their father used to oh-so-religiously maintain and update as their monster-hunting childhood unfolded. 

When he bent down and picked it up, it was blank. Normally he would have shrugged the thought away – perhaps Dean could have left it, or Castiel could have dropped it during one of his many trips lugging books around the bunker in an attempt to organize the giant library, but Sam's bedroom was far away from either of those routes, and Dean was such a neat-freak about stuff like that he couldn't think of a single way this book could have ended up outside of his door by accident. 

He didn't ask about it – maybe Dean thought Sam needed a place to write his thoughts out or whatever and, typical Dean-style, didn't actually want to say the words or say that he was worried, but wanted to show he cared nonetheless. Sam placed the book in his room, on the bedside table, and didn't think twice about it for the rest of the day. 

 

 

A week later, Team Free Will was frustrated as all Hell. They'd run out of food, Dean had forgotten apparently the _one_ thing that would have made their dinner edible, Sam had been up all day researching and messed up Castiel's organization (it was a fucking mess but he wasn't going to pick a fight with a Goddamn Angel about book placement) and to top it all off, they'd found a Hunt nearby and gone to investigate only to figure out about two days in that they had no idea what the fuck they were up against or how to make it stop. 

Hunts like that always stressed Sam and Dean out. It was hard to tell when Castiel was stressed or if he was just pissed over the amount of times humans had to pee in a day, but he had been acting surly as well.  

He hadn't wanted to socialize. Even the pastime of drinking beer in a field somewhere in silence didn't sound as appealing as it normally did, and so Sam retired to his room with a huff, running his fingers through his hair and flopping down onto his bed hard enough that the old wooden frame gave a protesting squeak. 

He made another frustrated sound, rubbing his hands over his face, before his eyes were drawn to the book he'd left on his bedside table. He had yet to touch it, but sometimes a guy just needed to vent, so he got up and plucked a pen out of the cup-full he'd placed on his desk in his room, kicked off his shoes and settled back on his bed, ready to write and vent until his hand hurt and his eyes finally would stay closed. 

He flipped back the supple leather binding and blinked at the first page. 

Where it had been unmarked, there were now words. Written in small, tight cursive, the first line now read; _It_ _is a Shadow Person._  

Sam frowned at the page, flicking through the rest of the book to see if there was anything else written, but there was nothing. He _knew_ he hadn't touched the book since finding it, and it had been blank upon first glance. To top it all off, he didn't recognize the handwriting as being Dean's or Castiel's. 

Sam rose from his bed and left his room. Mysterious book appearances were one thing, but when a book starts writing in itself _Tom Riddle_ style, that's something worth mentioning. Especially when the book is apparently trying to give them Hunting advice. 

He found Dean and Castiel sitting on the couch together, Castiel curled up and reading a book at one end, Dean drinking a beer and channel surfing at the other, a bowl of tortilla chips between them. He cleared his throat, drawing their attention. 

"What's up, Sammy?" Dean asked. 

"Um…" Sam shifted his weight, looking down at the book in his hands. At his silence, Castiel looked up, too, his too-knowing eyes immediately zero-ing in on the book clutched in Sam's hands. "So, you guys didn't happen to, like, lose a journal or something, right?" 

Dean frowned, shaking his head. 

"'Cause, well, I found this outside my room like a week ago and I didn't think anything of it, but now – get this, someone wrote something in it." 

He opened the book to the first page, holding it out for Dean to take and look over. Castiel closed his own book, carefully turning so that he could observe as well. "I haven't even opened it until today," Sam added, shrugging one shoulder. "And I thought it was, you know, worth mentioning." 

"A 'Shadow Person'?" Dean asked, raising an eyebrow, before he snorted. "That's not a thing." 

"I believe it's an outdated term for a spirit," Castiel said, reaching for the book. Dean handed it to him without a word, and immediately Castiel frowned down at the sentence, running his fingers over the neat writing. "Something worth looking into, yes, but I believe that there is a greater concern to address." 

"Yeah, apparently we have self-writing journals now," Sam finished with a sigh. "I don't recognize the handwriting, Dean, do you?" 

Dean shook his head, straightening up and turning the volume down on the television.  "Nah, but I'm more concerned about what kind of shit can get past the bunker's wards and still manage to _Chamber of Secrets_ its way into a self-writing book." 

Castiel hummed. He had been relatively quiet up until that point, and so the Winchesters' attention was drawn to him at the sound. He had a small, barely-there smile on his face, a look in his eyes like he was reading the words, but seeing _through_ the book to something beyond the page. 

"It is Gadreel," he said after a moment. "I recognize his Grace, here on the page." 

"Gadreel?" Dean blinked, shaking his head. "I thought he, you know, was down for the count." 

Sam nodded, pressing his lips together. Gadreel had set off an atomic bomb-like distraction for them in his prison. Honestly Sam had thought he'd died, but Castiel had been vague about that, and when they'd heard that he had survived, Sam had assumed he'd holed himself up somewhere to lick his wounds. 

"No," Castiel said, nodding. Then, he closed the book and handed it back to Sam, who stepped forward and took it. "That is definitely him." He made a small, amused sound. "He seems to have taken an interest in the success of your Hunts, now." 

"Well, I mean…" Sam could see the dark, disapproving look already starting to form on Dean's face. Apparently Castiel was the only exception to his 'Angels are Dicks' rule nowadays. Not that Sam could blame him. "That's a good thing, right? We could use all the help we could get, and it's not like Gadreel's on the bad guys' side anymore." 

"Uh, except for being Metatron's right hand man?" Dean said with a disbelieving look. 

"I think he more than made up for that when he almost killed himself trying to help me," Castiel replied with a sharp look in Dean's direction. Dean huffed, but settled for glaring at the television rather than engage Castiel in an argument. "Gadreel has only ever wanted redemption," Castiel added when it seemed that Dean would say no more, and turned his eyes to Sam instead, "and if this is how he chooses to earn it, I believe as long as his intentions remain pure and the information remains useful, there is no reason to destroy that journal." 

Sam smiled, relieved at Castiel's approval though he couldn't pinpoint the exact reason why. Castiel returned his smile, before he rearranged himself on the couch so that he could turn back to his book. Dean turned the volume back up, and Sam considered the conversation done. 

 

 

There was something unforgettable about having an Angel in your head, possessing your body. Maybe it was the fact that there was literally nothing else to compare it to – nothing to say, or feel, or explain that another human being could empathize with. Perhaps it was its simple uniqueness that made it a sensation that lasted forever. 

Sam remembered Meg. He remembered Lucifer. He remembered Gadreel. 

Granted, Meg hadn't been an Angel, but possession was possession. Lucifer had been cold, freezing, had overcome Sam like being frozen to death where the heartbeat slows and the lungs shiver and the brain can't think beyond how unbearably, unfathomably _cold_ it was. 

Gadreel wasn't a cold presence. For all that he had done, he was warm and gentle. When Sam thought about it, he was amazed he hadn't known Gadreel had been possessing him before, because with Gadreel in his body he had felt light and warm, a palm frond swaying on the side of a calm lake. He was a steadfast, solid, righteous presence – the shadow of the mountain cast long across a burning desert, the heat trapped in a cave during a freezing rain storm.  

 

 

Turned out it _was_ a Shadow Person. After some research and a few nights spent camped out in the dark and cold trying to lure the thing out, Sam and Dean had been able to banish it for good. The journal had not brought them any new information, although at one point on the drive home another sentence appeared; 

 _Castiel used the last of the coffee today._  

Sam had grinned when he told Dean, who had grumbled the last three miles to the closest convenience store outside of the bunker. Castiel's radiant smile when they presented it to him, though, had silenced Dean's grumbling up very quickly. 

It had been a long, cold Hunt, and Sam was looking forward to a hot shower and a good night's sleep. When he stepped into his room, fresh from the shower and dressed in a soft shirt and pajama pants for the night, he found the air unusually warm, pleasant against his still-water-dotted skin. Usually the bunker's air was cool even with the heat blasting, the stone walls and floors making a horrible insulator. But his room was warm and welcoming, the bed made, his hunting gear put away. 

Sam smiled, closing the door behind him. "You're not being subtle," he said to the empty room. 

There was no reply. Though they knew it was Gadreel, neither Dean, Sam nor Castiel had yet to see him manifest himself in their midst. Perhaps he was trying to buy himself more time, earn their trust and friendship before revealing himself, but Sam didn't want to push. He was sure Gadreel would come to them in time, when he was ready. 

Still, the remark earned a small, barely-there sound of wingbeats, and Sam grinned to himself. When he went to bed, he imagined that the blankets felt heavier than usual, as though someone had covered him with a large, thick blanket. 

 

 

Days passed, and the journal was written in more and was soon covered in neat writing. Hunting advice and reminders to grab certain groceries were the norm at first. But then it became more personal, less clean-cut. There were things in there that Sam knew were just for him. Things like ' _I'm sitting on a mountain in South America. The sunrise looks beautiful_ '. And ' _Your brother and mine are fighting over what kind of show to watch. It's amusing to see Castiel so passionate_ '.  

Every now and again there was an ' _I'm sorry_ ' thrown in. Sam didn't know exactly what Gadreel was apologizing for – perhaps for possessing Sam without his knowledge, maybe for forcing Castiel out, maybe for following Metatron or letting Lucifer into Eden or a million other things Sam could only imagine occurring within the lifetime of an Angel. Sam made sure to look at those notes the longest, to think back on all the things he wanted to atone for, fact or fiction. The things Castiel might want forgiveness for, or the things Dean had done that he could only now stomach thinking about, let alone talking about and asking for forgiveness for. Sam knew he tried – Hell, they all did. Where they would all end up was about as random as a coin toss. 

So he said 'Thank you'. For apologizing, for repenting, for being here. Thank you, thank you, thank you. And Gadreel continued to help them, and remind them to pick up coffee or toilet paper or salt or another wrench or whatever else they might need. 

Sometimes Sam heard Castiel speaking to someone in the library, when he knew Dean was in the kitchen or in his room. He never asked and didn't pry, but he knew Castiel was trying to build a bond with Gadreel as well. Family was important, to all of them, and Castiel had no brothers anymore to speak of, let alone those that would want to speak to him. 

 

 

"Why aren't you here? Why are you still hiding?" 

 _My wings are still healing. I am much more useful to_ _you_ _here as I am than if I were there._  

 

 

"Maybe we can help you, with your wings, with your wounds. Why are you still hiding?" 

 _I know you can help, but with pain and suffering comes enlightenment and forgiveness. I will join you when the time is right._  

 

 

The third time Sam asked, he was sure the answer would be the same; "Why are you still hiding?" 

 _Because I am afraid._  

Afraid? What would an Angel that survived his own Grace exploding possibly fear? "What are you afraid of?" 

There was no answer. The journal did not conjure a new message onto its pages. Frustrated, Sam closed the book with a low huff and tossed it onto his bedside table. He already had a headache forming behind his eyes and the low lighting of his bedside lamp combined with Gadreel's small, dark handwriting certainly didn't help. 

That night Sam dreamed of a calm lake, spread out as far as he could see. His feet were submerged, and the water was cool on his skin, a pleasant contrast to the heat of the sun beating down on his shoulders and the back of his head. 

He waded deeper into the lake until the dark water was up to his knees, before he turned around at the sound of wingbeats, like a giant owl had flown in behind him and settled on the shore. When he turned around, he saw the silhouette of a man, the shadow cast stretching out until it almost touched Sam in the water. 

Although he could not see the man's face, he knew exactly who it was, and smiled in welcome. "I was starting to think you'd never show up." 

The shadow on the water shifted, huge black shapes behind it moving and shifting in place as though uncomfortable, and the man reached a hand out, beckoning Sam back to the shore. Sam started to wade back and reached out until his hand found the man's, and he was hauled the rest of the way out of the lake. 

"Where are we?" Sam asked, stepping out of the lake and onto the smooth, dense mud surrounding it. His feet sank in, the warm mud squelching between his toes, gritty and solid. 

After a moment, the man answered; "That mountain in South America I told you about," he said. His voice was hoarse, almost unrecognizable. When Sam stepped closer the man turned, and Sam's smile grew when the sunlight revealed the face of Gadreel's first vessel, no longer obscured by shadows. The light made his face look sharper, and even though Sam knew he was speaking to an Angel, Gadreel looked rough, unhealthy – his eyes seemed sunken, only glowing dimly with Grace, his skin was pale and shone as though with a fever. 

Sam's smile faded, and he took a step back to look at Gadreel properly, _really_ look at him. "How are you feeling?" he asked softly, squeezing the Angel's hand. 

Gadreel managed a smile. "What I did took a great toll," he said in answer. "The healing process has been long and arduous." He looked away; his face covered in darkness again, and heaved a great breath. "Longer than I anticipated. Still, I have not spent one second in regret." 

"You don't have to go through it alone," Sam said, squeezing Gadreel's hand tightly, convinced that in the blink of an eye the Angel would disappear. "Please, come to the bunker. We can help you, and make sure you're safe." 

When Gadreel remained silent, Sam pressed on; "I've heard you talking to Castiel." Gadreel turned to look at him again, expression surprised. "You're not – you're not gonna be _dead weight_ , or whatever else it is you've managed to convince yourself you are. Even if you keep doing what you're doing, just helping in any way you can, that's enough." 

Gadreel sighed, closing his eyes. "You don't understand." 

"Then _make me_." Sam let go of Gadreel's hand, instead taking the Angel's shoulder and forcing Gadreel to turn and look at him fully. "Make me understand. _Please_." 

Gadreel sighed again, another small, sad smile passing over his face. He reached up, cupping Sam's cheek in a touch so gentle Sam wasn't even sure he was actually feeling it, or if he simply expected the sensation and his mind was playing tricks on him. "I know you are perhaps one of the few people who truly could," he said slowly, as though testing the words in his throat before he let them loose. "I have done so much wrong, and you, Sam, I've harmed you more than your brother, and mine." He let the touch linger, stepping closer to Sam until their chests were almost touching. Their shadows on the lake were indiscernible from each other, and Sam imagined, when the silhouettes moved, that he could feel Gadreel's wings lean forward to brush down his sides. "I suppose…I suppose I am afraid of that, of how much wrong I've done – that perhaps there is a wall I can never ascend between my acts and the forgiveness I am striving for. And maybe, if I try and I fail, the fall will hurt me more than if I had never tried at all." 

"Don't leave." Sam had lived through enough goodbyes to recognize the start of one. He grabbed Gadreel's wrist, holding on as tightly as he could. "I swear, if you leave -." 

Gadreel sighed. Around them, the wind was picking up, the sun setting. "I am too weak to stay," he said, and Sam knew he wasn't speaking about being in the bunker, but the dream. His eyes were dimming, almost human now; the warmth of his hand on Sam's face was fading away into nothing. "I need to rest." 

"Use me," Sam whispered, holding onto Gadreel's wrist even more tightly. "I know souls are energy. Use mine." 

Gadreel blinked at him, his eyes widening in shock, but then a gust like the concussive force of a bomb hit Sam in the chest and he surged awake, gasping, sweating and cold. He could still feel his feet, wet and warm from the mud on the lake, and his hand was still wrapped tight in a fist, grabbing onto something that was no longer there. 

 

 

"We have to help Gadreel." 

Sam was unsurprised to have that statement met with twin looks of baffled confusion. "Why?" Dean asked. "Seems like the guy has it all together – he's helping and not in the way." 

"He's _hurting_ ," Sam argued. Dean sat back, blowing out a large breath. "And you're right – he is helping, but don't you think it could be even more helpful to have _two_ Angels on our side? For research? For Hunts?" 

Dean sighed. "I mean, yeah, fine," he said, leaning forward again and running a hand over his face. "I get it. But you said yourself he doesn't wanna show his face around here." At that, he threw a glance over in Castiel's direction. "Can't say I blame him." 

Castiel fixed Dean with a cold look. "I have made it perfectly clear to my brother that I forgive him," he said sharply, before he sighed and looked back at the table. "Besides, I can hardly blame him for falling for Lucifer's tricks. And he has more than made up for that in my mind." Then, he lifted his eyes to Sam, and his voice turned unbearably gentle; "If Gadreel wants to keep his distance, then that is his decision. It's…easy to get wrapped up with humans, and to lose sight of things that are important." 

Dean frowned. "What the Hell is that supposed to mean?" 

"It _means_ ," Castiel said, breaking gazes with Sam to look at Dean, "that Gadreel has suffered much on humanity's behalf, and that is something I can sympathize with." Dean's expression turned dark, and he looked away from Castiel's piercing gaze to glare down at his coffee. "Sometimes the reward is worth it," Castiel added, "but it is a great thing to…remember." 

"Remember what?" 

"Faith." Castiel looked down, and didn't notice Sam and Dean's surprised looks. "To have faith in something again. Whether it's a God, or a plan…or a person." He sighed, shaking his head. "I have faith, in Dean, in you, Sam – in people, in Free Will. In something fallible and uncertain and smaller than I am, and yet so much larger at the same time." 

In the silence that followed, Dean reached out to Castiel, his fingers lightly touching the Angel's shoulder, skating down his arm. Castiel's mouth twitched up in a smile. 

"We have to help him," Sam said again, softer this time. "He's…weak, and lost. Even if it's something transient, or just for a while, doesn't he deserve to have friends? A family? He's done so much for us." 

"I mean, yeah, I agree with you," Dean finally answered with a one-shouldered shrug. "But how? If he doesn't wanna show up at our front door then how do we make him?" 

"He's weak," Sam said again. "There must be a way to help the healing process. He's still, I don't know, recovering, I guess." 

Dean's gaze snapped to Sam, eyes narrowed. "How's it you know so much about his condition, Sammy?" 

Sam shifted in his seat, lifting his chin. "He writes more in the journal than I share, alright?" he said, a hard edge to his voice. He wasn't ashamed about keeping his correspondence with Gadreel filtered – he knew there were things in there that only he was meant to see. "And…he kind of came into my dream last night. I saw him, and I gotta say, he looked like crap." 

Dean's jaw was bulging out, his instinctive answer and protectiveness held in check. Sam was glad for it – after all, he was sure Castiel had appeared to Dean more than once when they'd first met, and Sam knew for a fact that Dean had spoken to Castiel _about him_ when he'd been running around with Ruby. It wasn't like Dean had a leg to stand on in that argument. 

"Is there a way to help him?" Dean asked after a moment, swallowing back his anger and focusing instead on the task at hand. "There's gotta be some kind of mojo you can work, Cas." 

"For me to aid him, I'd have to be in his presence," Castiel said with a nod. "If he shared his location with me then I could go to him and help him that way – I may not be able to bring him back to full power but I could certainly speed up the process." 

Sam grinned. "I know he's in South America." 

Castiel nodded. "Then I shall see what I can do." 

 

 

Castiel returned with Gadreel three days after Sam's dream. 

Gadreel still looked a little worse for wear – his vessel's skin was pale, he looked thinner than Sam would think healthy for a man his size, and when he walked it was with great care, as though putting too much pressure on one leg would snap it in half – but he was there, and Sam was almost surprised at the elation he felt when he saw the Angel, one arm draped over Castiel's shoulder. 

Gadreel gifted Sam with a soft, amused smile. "You Winchesters are a stubborn people," he said, wincing as Castiel helped him over to the bunker's large dining table and allowed him to sit. 

Castiel huffed a small laugh, letting go and letting him settle as he stepped back. "It becomes endearing after a while," he said.  

 

 

Sam was happy. Castiel had given Gadreel small tasks, and with Dean cooking and feeding him and the rest, as well as whatever Grace Castiel could spare to help him, Gadreel was recovering quickly. He still seemed a little weak at times, and couldn't stand for very long, but he was healing. Castiel put him to work sorting the library books (apparently it was a system only Angels could understand), and he helped with research whenever the time arose. He didn't sleep, but would wish Sam a good night every night and greet him when he woke up every morning. 

Sam dreamed. He dreamed about that lake, or of a desert, or of a long walk through a city park. Gadreel was with him every time. Sometimes he merely walked along Sam in silence, or sometimes he would speak – about anything. About the color red in Sam's mind or about an interesting book he thought Sam might like to read, or about how Castiel had tried to tell him a joke and he didn't understand it and wanted Sam to explain. Sam slept better than he could remember on those nights. 

There were other nights. Nights where Sam was sure Gadreel could not have been there, or dreams that he hoped with all his might the Angel had not witnessed – nights where he woke up in a hot sweat, heart racing, mouth sore from kisses that burned and shoulders heavy with the weight of wings and a muscled body and force, _pressure_ , something urgent and biting at the back of his skull until he surged awake with a gasp and a hand down his pajama pants, gripping tight and shivering. 

Those nights were terrifying. He was always certain he'd find the Angel in his room, judging him, wrathful. Those nights hurt – the longing punched deep into his heart and left him sweaty and ashamed and so full of _want_ that he had to catch his breath slowly because if he breathed too deep his lungs would seize up. 

 

 

"Good morning, Sam." 

Sam managed a weak smile. "Hey," he said, plopping himself down opposite Gadreel. The Angel appeared to have not moved all night, still reading the same book Sam had seen him studying before he'd gone to bed. 

Gadreel smiled warmly at him. "How did you sleep?" he asked. The question was innocuous enough, but Sam couldn't stop the nervous, shamed blush creeping over his face. He was sure Gadreel could see it, too, in his soul, but the Angel had never commented on it or brought it up. 

"Fine," Sam replied shortly, taking a deep breath. Dean was already up, if the smell of cooking bacon was anything to go by. "You hungry?" 

Gadreel considered it for a moment, before he shook his head, and Sam rose from the table, following his nose to the kitchen to find Dean had already set a plate out for him, bacon and potatoes piled high. 

"Got us a Hunt," Dean said by way of 'Good morning'. "Real weird one. Bunch of drownings in a public pool." 

Sam grunted, grabbing a piece of bacon and taking a bite, a pleased hum falling from him at the crispy, salty flavor. "I mean…okay, that's tragic, but why do you think it's our kind of thing?" 

"Because," Dean replied, waving his spatula for emphasis, "all the victims were champion swimmers. And they all died at around the same kind of day." He turned to Sam, grinning. "Kind of ritualistic – looks like." 

"Only you would be giddy over this," Sam said. He picked up his plate and grabbed a fork, and headed back to the dining room table before Dean could reply. 

Gadreel watched him sit and get comfortable. "It sounds like you'll be away for a while," he said. 

Sam nodded, spooning the first bite of potatoes into his mouth. God bless Dean, he really knew how to cook. "Yeah," he said once he'd swallowed. "We'll be out of your hair for a while, give you some peace and quiet." 

Gadreel shifted in place, his expression guarded. "Be safe out there." 

Sam paused, looking the Angel in the eye for a long moment. Gadreel bore his gaze silently, his expression not changing even slightly. 

Then, Sam nodded. "I will." 

 

 

As far as Hunts go, this one seemed pretty open and shut to Sam. About a month ago an athlete from a neighboring town had died under mysterious circumstances, practicing in the pool for an upcoming competition, and decided to take it out on whatever poor unwitting soul he could get his hands on. The body had been cremated but the guy's – Aaron Wade's – swim goggles and previous meddles had been hung as a kind of memorial at the public pool. 

Breaking in had been a cinch, but damn it all if Wade was determined not to go down without a fight. 

Sam hadn't even registered the concussive force that had knocked him into the pool and dragged him under. By the time his body caught up with his brain and he realized he was in danger of drowning and managed to start fighting back, he was sunk into the deep end with Dean tugging desperately on his arm. 

Sam couldn't swim away. His foot was caught and even with Dean bracing himself on the floor of the pool and desperately trying to haul Sam back to the surface, he couldn't break from the spirit's strong pull, forcing him downward. 

Eventually Dean had to let go and go back up for air. Sam closed his eyes, feeling his eyes burn from the chlorine and desperately willing his aching lungs to hold on for just a little bit longer before they spasmed and started to pull the water in. He knew he had maybe another thirty seconds, tops, before it was all over. He couldn't even see the spirit of Aaron Wade to fight back, and he had no weapons to use that would be of any help underwater. 

Two things happened at the exact same time. Sam's throat seized, his body bent, and he opened his mouth to suck in the first lungful of water. At the same time, he felt a strong hand grab the back of his jacket and haul him out of the bottom of the pool as though he weighed nothing. 

He was flung onto the floor at the side of the pool, and rolled onto his side with a pained moan, choking the water up out of his lungs and desperately replacing it with air in rough, gasping inhales. Dimly, he registered a bright light of what must have been the spirit going up in smoke, his memorial lit up and burning, but he couldn't concentrate on anything for too long. He was dizzy, his head hurt and burned behind his eyes, and his chest ached in such a way as though he had been laying under an anvil for the last year of his life. 

He looked up at his savior, eyes widening when he saw Gadreel crouched next to him, one hand still fisted in his clothes. He could see the shadow of Gadreel's wings, dancing with the light of the rippling water reflected onto the wall, and the wings were curled protectively over him. He was soaked to the bone but he could feel _extra_ moisture – the warm weight of Gadreel's soaked feathers surrounding him, shielding him from the vengeful spirit. 

"Thank you," Sam rasped, unable to get more out before he coughed, more water dripping onto the back of his hand. 

Gadreel smiled at him, his other hand coming forward to gently cup Sam's face. At once Sam felt Grace ease through him, soothing the burn in his lungs and clearing his vision. He was suddenly dry, too, and the weight at his back turned warm and soft, like he was being wrapped in a blanket. 

He grinned. "Are you giving me a wing-hug?" 

Gadreel blinked, and Sam felt the wings move, twitch, restless. "I can stop if it crosses a line." 

"Don't you dare," Sam replied, grabbing Gadreel's wrist, just as he had in his dream. "Don't leave." 

Gadreel's exhale was soft, shaky, and he shifted his weight onto his knees so that he could draw Sam closer, wings tight and warm and wrapped around Sam. "I won't, Sam. I promise." 

 

 

When Sam woke up the next day, he was in a cocoon of wings. Elation ran through him, and he reached forward to lightly touch one askew, dark golden feather, before the shield was pulled away, revealing light streaming in through his curtains from the high windows of his room, illuminating the far wall of his bedroom and the door. 

Sam rolled over, smiling when he saw Gadreel sitting up next to him, a book in hand. Gadreel looked over at him, and Sam watched as his wings settled around Sam on the bed, curled up behind his back and laying lax on Gadreel's other side. 

"I remember your wings," Sam said after a moment. The feathers tickled his arm. Gadreel's wings were mostly green, dusted with gold and grey like dry winter grass giving way in the spring. "I remember feeling them. They were so…light." 

"My wings have been damaged for most of my life," Gadreel admitted, looking away for a moment. "I think this is the first time in a long time they have come close to being whole." 

"I'm sorry." 

"Don't be." Gadreel turned back to him, the smile coming to his face once again, and he reached over to brush some hair away from Sam's neck, index finger trailing lightly along his jaw. "They have been allowed to heal because circumstances have given me respite. Precious, precious end to… well." He sighed, before taking another deep breath. "I feel…hopeful. I feel as though I have reached a calm port in a storm." 

Sam smiled. "Good," he said, taking Gadreel's hand. 

Gadreel closed his book, setting it to one side, and moved so that he could lie down properly next to Sam, facing him, their hands still loosely clasped, fingers laced. "I hope I haven't crossed another line in being here," he said, his voice quiet now, intimate and soft. "I felt… When you were asleep, I could hear you calling for me in your dream, and I wanted more than anything to answer." 

"Oh. It's – it's okay," Sam stuttered, blushing. If Gadreel only knew the kinds of dreams he had about the Angel. Longing didn't even begin to cover it. "I like having you here – I mean, it's probably obvious, if you Angels are half as observant as you pretend to be." 

Gadreel huffed a laugh. His eyes dropped from Sam's, to his mouth, then back up. The air hung between them, heavy in its silence, tense, anticipatory. 

Sam licked his lips. His lungs felt like they were burning. "Please," he said, softly. "Do it." 

Gadreel's smile widened enough to show teeth, his fingers squeezed Sam's hand, and he leaned in, his other hand finding its comfortable place on Sam's cheek. Their lips brushed, dry and soft, before Sam tilted his head and leaned in again, eyes falling closed. 

Gadreel kissed with the same gentleness he had done everything else – his lips parted, welcoming Sam's tongue as they moved together, sliding closer. Sam smiled when he felt Gadreel's wing twitch towards him, before it stretched out over Sam's body, covering him once again in a thick blanket of feathers. They pulled apart, crashed back in again. Gadreel's lips were chapped, dry, gentle against Sam's. He was not unsure, meeting Sam easily and eagerly until Sam finally had to pull away for air. 

Sam gasped, eyes wide and searching Gadreel's face. "Um." He cleared his throat, swallowed hard. "Before you even say it – that wasn't crossing a line either." 

Gadreel huffed a soft laugh, his wing trembling finely in humor. "I certainly hope not," he replied, resting his forehead against Sam's, "given that you asked me to do it." 

Sam smiled, reaching forward to grab Gadreel's shirt, fingers tightening. "I want to do it again," he said, before he hesitated, licking his lips. "Is that okay?" 

In answer, Gadreel leaned in for another kiss, his wing wrapping tightly around Sam and holding him close. It was like being wrapped in a blanket, drifting on a calm sea, and Sam began to think, this hope burgeoning in his chest, that perhaps there could be something here. 

"Don't leave," he said when they pulled apart again. 

Gadreel bit his lower lip, and shook his head. "Never," he promised, squeezing Sam's fingers tightly. "I promise." 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Art] Finding Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5777725) by [SasTMK (OutOfLuck)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OutOfLuck/pseuds/SasTMK)




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